


be careful making wishes (in the dark)

by Probably_Not_Captain_America



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Revan, F/F, First Kiss, First Time, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, Moral corruption, Sadism, Seduction to the Dark Side, Semi-Public Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, dark side au, heed the warnings this is a little fucked up, light humiliation themes, not super healthy relationship probably but definitely consensual, revan is REALLY not a role model kids, revan is a little too op here, revan remembers everything au, this got very violent sorry malak, violence kink? i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Probably_Not_Captain_America/pseuds/Probably_Not_Captain_America
Summary: can't be sure when they've hit their mark---But Revan does nothing. She just stands there, her shoulders shaking oddly, and there’s a sound accompanying it –She’slaughing.Revan is laughing, louder now, wholeheartedly laughing in the face of Darth Malak threatening her.When she's calmed down a little, she’s actually wiping tears from her eyes, still grinning wildly.“You people will believe literallyeverything.”---Revan, in her persona Halina Jerre, has successfully deceived the Jedi – and everyone else – into believing her sincere turn to the Light Side, despite retaining all her memories of her life as Dark Lord of the Sith. Her carefully laid out plans to use this to her advantage are thrown into jeopardy by the untimely confrontation with her former apprentice Darth Malak.The conflict escalates when Revan’s true identity is finally revealed, and more things than just her past are brought to light – and in the eye of the ensuing storm is Bastila Shan, forced to question everything she’s ever known.
Relationships: Female Revan/Bastila Shan, Revan/Bastila Shan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 88





	be careful making wishes (in the dark)

**Author's Note:**

> (This takes place in my ongoing KotOR Dark Side AU: Revan's name is Halina Jerre, she has the "very short brown hair" character model. She remembers being Revan from the beginning of the game and proceeds to simply fuck with everyone's minds by pretending she doesn't, but still kinda being a Sith at every opportunity because Bastila will let her get away with it anyways. She's a tactical genius with incredible charisma, very charming and very dangerous, and Bastila pretty much immediately falls for her.)
> 
> This fic, while in the same universe, isn't really the definitive version of these events as much as it is a "what if" kind of scenario. I just wanted Revan to kick some serious ass okay>:P this started as a challenge to incorporate the actual verbatim dialogue from the game and make it into a coherent conversation that still fits my established lore, and the result got way longer and way more gory than originally intended.  
> There are graphic descriptions of a man being slowly killed with lightning, and a brief scene of consenting adults having sex in the presence of said man's corpse, though it's really just lying in the background. Still, if that icks you out, here's your warning. Also, Bastila clearly enjoys seeing Revan commit sadistic violence and is occasionally aroused by it, I feel like that needs to be addressed real quick.
> 
> With that out of the way, here we go:D  
> Title from Fall Out Boy: My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (yes very original i know go away)

The ship’s alarm sirens blare loudly, the frantic sound echoing tenfold in Bastila’s head. _We need to leave_ , she thinks, the urgency no doubt radiating off her in the force. Malak is coming, there’s no _time_ for any of this, and yet Halina’s pace is unhurried. It’s almost as if she’s somewhere else entirely, doesn’t hear the alarm that’s probably drawing every last Sith trooper on this ship to them, doesn’t feel the approaching darkness of Malak’s presence; she just walks briskly towards the docking bay, focused but not anxious.

Bastila spares a thought to wonder whether that’s how she should be reacting right now, as well, but the adrenaline in her veins is making it so damn hard to _think_ , Jedi training or no. Carth’s no great help either. The man still appears completely distraught by the news Admiral Karath relayed to him with his dying words – news being a relative term. Bastila has nothing against the Corellian pilot, he’s decent enough and a capable soldier. His intelligence and perception, however, had clearly fallen a little short - how the man hadn’t realized the absolute obvious yet was beyond her.

_Halina is Revan_ – the fact must have hit him like a freighter to the gut. To Bastila, it’s like saying water is wet. She had hoped, at some point, perhaps, that the statement would lose its truth, that Revan would be no more; but had quickly become apparent that all such hopes were doomed from the get-go. _Had_ she even hoped? Had she ever wanted Revan gone in the first place, that shining beacon in the Force taken human shape? She’s not sure anymore, and there’s no time for it now, anyways. It’ll be an awkward conversation on the Hawk later, that much is certain, but the looming threat of Malak’s arrival blots out all else in Bastila’s mind.

Halina, on the other hand, doesn’t seem worried at all. She’d simply shrugged Carth’s fury away with an enigmatic smile; thinking of it, Bastila dreads the eventual confrontation even more, inevitable as it may be. She feels in her bones that Halina – _Revan_ – will drop her disguise, that the game is over and every step towards the docking bay is taking them all closer to the tragic epilogue of a story long since finished.

A door before them opens and four Sith soldiers emerge, blasters at the ready. Bastila curses inwardly, her Jedi compassion not quite enough to deal with any more delay to their escape.

Halina makes quick work of two of them, slicing their heads clean off with one graceful flurry of her saberstaff, while Carth takes a few shots in their general direction. Bastila waves her hand, summoning the Force to her, and the fourth one is hurled into the nearest durasteel wall – the dull, sickening crack evidence of more than one broken bone. The soldier’s pain is short-lived though, as Halina makes a fist at empty air and the man’s neck snaps like a dry bough. He’s dead before he hits the floor, the whole action taking barely five seconds. It frightens Bastila how well she and Halina work in tandem on the battlefield, a twisted choreography of brutal efficiency.

The third soldier still stands, Carth’s blaster inefficient against his armour; the pilot had never truly understood the concept that shooting _more_ at firearm resistant gear didn’t make it any less impenetrable. Suddenly, the trooper chokes, twists his head at an awful angle and then simply falls, crumpling in a heap of limbs, literally a dead weight. Carth looks smug at the kill he deems his, obviously not realizing that Revan’s – _Halina’s_ , Bastila corrects herself – gestures are mostly for show. If she so fancies, people will drop dead around her without her ever lifting a finger.

“We need to go, now! _Hurry_! Any more of these thugs and we might not make it out of here,” Bastila urges, trying but not quite succeeding to keep the anguish out of her voice.

Halina looks over her shoulder and grins, a wicked expression that never bodes well.

“Oh, we will, Bastila. Don’t worry.”

Usually, Halina’s reassurance is enough to lift some of the weight off of Bastila’s mind, but something about this simple sentence leaves her deeply disturbed. Halina’s _too_ sure, the confidence in her words borne of knowledge only she holds, and it makes Bastila uncomfortable to her core. There might be worse things than Malak approaching, and the thought settles cold in her gut.

Halina notices, Bastila is sure, but if anything, her grin widens a fraction as she breaks into a light jog.

The sirens are so _loud_ , Bastila can barely focus, but even still, she feels Malak’s force signature edge ever closer in her subconscious. The docking bay is close, now – only a few corridors away, she’s sure, but this ship is large and the sirens are **_loud_** –

_He’s here._

Bastila stops dead in her tracks, Carth nearly running into her. The cold seeps into her bones, the darkness gnawing at the edges of her mind –

“He’s here,” Bastila says again, out loud this time, and Halina before her halts. She seems to think on it for a moment before she speaks:

“We need to run. We might still make it – come on!”

But there’s something _off_ about the words, something wrong, just like earlier; Bastila can’t place it, and she senses through their shared bond that Revan is unusually guarded – she’s hiding something, but she hurries alongside Halina anyways, hoping against hope that they’ll reach the Hawk in time.

They round a corner, the light now an ominous red, no doubt the alarm protocol dimming the lights in non-vital areas. A large blast door before them opens to a wave of Halina’s hand, behind it is another – the letters Hangar Bay C written across it in large block writing. Halina doesn’t slow, lifts her hand—

\--but the door opens without her prompting.

_Malak_.

The figure of a large man is outlined in the corridor, the reds of his robe blending in seamlessly with the ambient lights.

Behind Bastila, the first blast door slams shut again, but the sound barely registers, even though the alarms are now gone, replaced by an eerie silence that somehow rings equally loud. She stands rooted to the spot; Malak before her, Revan at her side, and she can sense it in her very core that the end of the slope has been reached; beyond lies only the long fall now.

Malak moves, and she can feel more than see her companions step up next to her. The hiss of an igniting lightsaber fills the empty space, and Bastila isn’t sure whose weapon made the sound. Her own saber is in her hands, her stance aggressive, but her mind is dulled, clouded by Malak’s darkness and something else, some void more profound that she can’t quite grasp, like a blur on the edge of her vision.

Malak takes a step forward and laughs, a menacing sound reverberating hollow in his prosthetic jaw.

“I hope you weren't thinking of leaving so soon, Bastila. I've spent far too much energy hunting down you and your companions to let you get away from me now.”

Another step. Bastila’s blood is rushing in her ears, almost as deafening as the alarms from before.

“Besides, I had to see for myself if it was true. Even now I can hardly believe my eyes... tell me, why did the Jedi spare you? Is it vengeance you seek at this reunion?”

Malak turns to address Halina. Bastila swallows, her throat dry. _Now_. Now the lie is over. Revan will attack, and –

“…reunion? What are you talking about?”

She _lies_. Bastila knows, feels it as clearly as she would the sun on Dantooine with closed eyes – Revan is lying. It’s scary how seamless it is, how she’s so absurdly _believable_. She comes across as more honest than when she’s telling the truth, her entire demeanour shifting to accommodate whatever role will benefit her the most.

Bastila suspects only she can tell when Revan lies. It must be the unique bond between them, and even so, Bastila can’t always be sure of her intuition. Revan might have lied to her in the past, _must_ have done so – why she decided to let her guard down enough to let Bastila know at this point is anyone’s guess.

And with wonder, Bastila watches as one Sith Lord lies to another and succeeds.

Malak laughs again, obviously surprised.

“You mean you don't know? All this time, and you still haven't figured it out?”

Bastila drops her stance by a fraction, equal parts fascinated and frightened as Malak chuckles at his imagined superiority.

“I wonder how long you would have stayed blind to the truth? Surely some of what you once were must have surfaced by now. Even the combined power of the Jedi Council couldn't keep your true identity buried forever, could it?”

Oh, if he knew how right he was. Bastila doesn’t even bother correcting herself anymore. Halina is gone, and the woman to her right, still feigning shock so admirably, is _Revan_ , through and through. She might deny it, might laugh it off, and lesser men like Carth may believe her. _Greater_ men may believe her. But Bastila knows. She knows the beast has awakened once more, but why it still pretends to be asleep, she can’t fathom.

But Revan must have a reason; she always does. There is tactical advantage to be gained here, no doubt, so Bastila plays along with Revan’s farce, like she’s done many times before – so often that slipping into the role of devoted, silent follower to Revan has become something like second nature to her, disconcertingly easy to fall back to.

“You cannot hide from what you once were, Revan! Recognize that you were once the Dark Lord - and know that I have taken your place!”

Malak flourishes his lightsaber for emphasis. Revan looks thoroughly disturbed at this point, as though Malak was actually bearing news to her. Carth, on the other hand, _is_ thoroughly disturbed – he keeps looking between Revan and Malak as if unsure who to believe at this point.

“I'm... Darth Revan? How is that _possible_?”

She sounds distraught, for all intents and purposes, like she’s truly shook – so much so that Bastila wonders whether her intuition may have been wrong. What if Halina is innocent after all, the Jedi she always claims to be, and Bastila has been misinterpreting her all this time? The thought is tiny, unlikely at best, but it nags at her like an insistent womp rat.

Revan lowers her saber, intent on answers rather than battle.

“You do not yet remember, Revan? The Jedi set a trap. They lured us into battle against a small Republic fleet. During the attack a team of Jedi knights boarded your ship. The Jedi strike team captured you and the Council used the Force to reprogram your mind; they wiped away your identity and turned you against your own followers!”

Revan’s brow is furrowed in confusion, and she and Malak take a few steps, half-circling each other in the corridor.

“The Jedi are fools; they do not believe in executing prisoners. Originally I assumed you had died in the battle. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were still alive, Revan.”

“Do you mean I’m really…your master?”

“Once I served you, Revan, but I always knew that one day the title of Dark Lord would be mine! When the Jedi boarded your vessel I saw my day had come. I ordered my own ships to fire on your bridge. I thought I could destroy all my enemies with a single glorious victory!”

_You idiot_ , Bastila thinks, before she can help herself. She hopes Revan doesn’t pick up on the thought, _but by the Force, what kind of fool must Malak be to think even for a moment that he could ever best this woman? How blind must he be?_

Bastila could swear that she sees the corners of Revan’s mouth twitch at the young Jedi’s thought, but that might have been her imagination running wild. Regardless, Malak continues:

“I never dreamed the Jedi would take you alive from the wreckage. How you survived is a mystery to me. Perhaps you should ask Bastila; after all, she was part of the strike team that captured you!”

The collective focus of the room shifts to Bastila, and she feels her stomach drop.

Carth, who has been unusually quiet, speaks up, clearly underestimating the gravity of the situation. The man never did know when to keep his mouth shut.

“Bastila, is this true?”

As if he were in any position to be asking questions here. Revan looks over to Bastila, raising an eyebrow, and at this point, Bastila simply doesn’t know who’s telling the truth anymore – or which truth has even been decided upon, for that matter. She barely trusts her own judgement in the matter, but she has to say something, _anything_ ; she takes a deep breath and looks Revan in the eye as she speaks:

“It's true. I was part of the team sent to capture Revan... to capture – you.”

Referring to the woman beside her as _Revan_ , outright and face to face still forces a pause out of Bastila, regardless of how often she might have done so in her own mind.

“When Malak fired on the ship you were badly injured. We thought you were dead. Your mind was destroyed, but I used the Force to preserve the flicker of life in your body. I brought you to the Jedi Council. They were the ones who healed your damaged mind.”

The words sound hollow, fake, even to Bastila’s own ears as she recites them like a prayer, more sound than conscious words. It’s hard to remember she believed them once. It feels like it was years ago, that all of this, Revan’s “reprogramming”, sounded ethical, moral, like the right thing to do. She’d been so blind, so unthinkingly devoted, that even this plan had seemed like a wise and righteous choice to her. She swallows, the bitter taste in her mouth a good part shame.

She might not be as good a liar as Revan, and hopefully never will be, but Malak seems to believe her words just fine, if his laughter is anything to go by.

“The Jedi Council didn't _restore_ your wounded mind, Revan! They merely programmed it with a new identity - one loyal to the Republic! They tried to make you their slave!”

Revan shakes her head, as if in disbelief.

“But…why? Why the new identity?”

Revan can truly get away with anything at this point. Surely everyone in this room realizes that she’s smarter than this. It’s basic knowledge that turning an enemy to your cause is a good idea in a war, even if it’s forcibly done. There must be some other purpose to this charade, Bastila thinks, but what choice does she have, other than to play along, to repeat the mantra that the Jedi council hammered into her?

Bastila speaks up, her voice thin.

“We couldn't simply restore your true identity; Revan was too dangerous. But locked inside your mind was information the Republic needed: the secrets of the Star Forge. The Council created an identity for you: a soldier under my command. Your subconscious memories were supposed to lead me to the Star Forge; there was no other way to get the information.”

Her voice wavers at the end, quiet and almost pleading. _It’s what they said,_ she thinks _, it’s what I believed._ She can’t bear to look at Revan anymore.

But Revan persists, takes a step closer and asks:

“Why you, Bastila? Why did the council choose you?”

The question is so odd, seemingly too trivial to be asked with a looming Sith Lord in the room, and it’s then that Bastila understands. Revan always was dramatic; Carth, even Malak, all of them are only backdrop to her. This is about her and Bastila, always has been; she’s waiting for the young Jedi to openly admit that her precious Council was wrong. That their actions were not justifiable by any means, and never will be; that Revan was _right_.

Bastila feels so small all of a sudden, pierced by Revan’s gaze; and yet, something is compelling her to answer, forcing her to spit out all the lies she’s been telling herself these past months, like confessing to crimes before Revan – the ultimate Judge, Jury, and Executioner. Their Force Bond is silent, a dead tell that Revan is hiding her true emotions, and the absence of Revan’s subconscious presence in her mind leaves Bastila feeling hollow.

“When I used my Force powers to keep you alive on that bridge it created our bond. I convinced the Council that I could use that bond to draw out your memories and lead us to the Star Forge. It was our only hope of stopping the Sith! There was no other choice…!”

She says it like an alibi, a feeble justification, nearly desperate in the fear that somehow, saying these things aloud might push Revan away. That her flaming eyes, always so tender when looking at her, might go cold and deadly, and that whatever it is between them will die before it had a chance to blossom.

Her expression is wound-up, pained despite her best efforts. She looks back at Revan, and there’s _hurt_ in her eyes, the sting of betrayal, and she says, quietly:

“You used me, Bastila.”

And Bastila _knows_ it’s a lie, knows this is a farce, but it _hurts_ , it **_hurts_** so badly, like a lightsaber straight to the heart.

“How can you say that? Malak nearly killed you, but the Jedi Council gave you another chance to live! They gave you a chance to redeem yourself by defeating the Sith!”

She’s openly pleading now, repeating the Council’s empty lies like beads of a rosary. _I believed it, Halina, I really did, and I’m sorry…_

Revan looks as if to say something, but Malak interrupts her:

“Tell the truth, Bastila, you wanted to taste the Dark Side for yourself! You knew the only way the Council would permit you to explore the Sith power was through Revan's lost memories!”

And it’s absurd, that this man’s empty words hurt Bastila, that they reach her at all, but she can’t help the rise in pitch in her voice as she nearly yells:

“ ** _No!!_** I wanted to _help_ you, Revan. I thought this mission would redeem you, that it would atone for your past crimes. How else could you be saved?”

These words, finally, ring true.

She looks into Revan’s eyes now, and it’s all she can do to stop herself from falling to her knees and begging for forgiveness. There’s tears in her eyes, and she knows it’s a pitiful sight she makes, but none of that matters when Revan is still looking at her like this, with this terrible emptiness in her eyes. She had wanted so dearly to believe that Halina could be redeemed, saved somehow, returned to the Light, to the rules and teachings that Bastila had lived by for so long.  
But with every further inch she’d let Halina in, the realization had crept in on her like the approaching night: it was _her_ , Bastila, that needed saving.

Instead of kindling Revan’s last flickers of light, Bastila had let herself be swallowed whole by Revan’s darkness – and found its embrace so much warmer, more _loving_ , than anything the Jedi had ever been able to give her. The thought of losing Revan twists her insides like a cold knife to the gut.

_I wanted to help you, Revan. Please._

Revan regards her coldly for a heartbeat. And another. And another.

And then, something _shifts_. The room seems to charge with static, the very air tasting different; maybe only to Revan and Bastila, but all at once, the tension between them levels, as if the waves of an ocean suddenly all agreed to reach an equilibrium.

Revan’s eyes glint, and Bastila _knows_.

She knows that this was a test, and that she’s passed it; that Revan needed to see just how far her commitment went. The weight lifted from Bastila’s chest feels nearly physical, and she understands. Over their shared force bond, although still guarded, Bastila feels a wave of calm reassurance wash over her. But mixed into it is – anticipation?

Bastila looks puzzled, but Revan just gives her a tiny smirk, invisible to anyone but her who knows Revan’s features so intimately, and in her mind, Bastila hears one clear word:

_Watch_.

Trying her best not to let her confusion show, Bastila obliges, turning her full attention to Revan and Malak’s confrontation.

Malak is oblivious as ever to their dynamic.

“The Jedi Council were foolish to let you live. I won't make the same mistake! The dark side is too strong, my power is too great! Even my old master is no longer a match for me!

“A small part of me has always regretted betraying you from afar. I always knew there were some who would think I acted out of fear, that I did not want to face you. But now fate has given me a second chance to prove myself. Once I defeat you in combat no one will question my claim to the Sith throne; my triumph will be complete!”

Malak flourishes his saber again and drops into an opening stance, clearly expecting Revan to do the same.

“We shall finish this alone in the ancient Sith tradition: master versus apprentice, as it was meant to be!”

But Revan does nothing. She just stands there, her shoulders shaking oddly, and there’s a sound accompanying it –

She’s laughing.

Revan is _laughing_ , louder now, wholeheartedly laughing in the face of Darth Malak threatening her.

The look on Malak’s face is priceless. He’s completely confused, dropping his exaggerated stance in favour of a more neutral position.

Revan’s laughter is almost hysterical now, her whole body shaking with it, and Carth’s expression is nearly as quizzical as Malak’s. Bastila is surprised, but not unprepared, and it must be the adrenaline, but she can’t help snicker along a little at Revan’s obvious glee, as twisted as it might be.

When Revan has calmed down a little, she’s actually wiping tears from her eyes, still grinning wildly.

“You people will believe literally _everything_.”

She chuckles a little, then finally stops laughing, her expression turning more serious, but not without that glint of mischief in her eyes that Bastila loves so much.

“Malak, you’re not stupid. You were my apprentice once, and I’m pretty sure I had good reasons for selecting you back then. Are you telling me that the Dark Side has clouded your mind enough for you to actually believe any of what I just told you? If you did, you’re literally the most arrogant self-righteous little bastard I’ve ever seen.”

It’s rare to see a Sith Lord completely dumbfounded. This was obviously one of these instances.

_“I remember everything.”_

A chill runs down Bastila’s spine at Revan’s words. She has known for a while, or at least had very good reason to suspect it, but hearing Revan say it out loud like this has a different energy to it.

“The Jedi council’s perverse plan did not work at all. I have no idea what they were thinking – I mean, I know Jedi are usually an awful bunch, but this one takes the cake – but it should have been obvious to them that I had safeguards in case anyone ever attempted to overwrite my mind. They were hardly the first to try it.”

“My will is too strong to be dominated, Malak, you of all people should know that. I was injured, yes, but as they say, a true Sith never dies, and I am no exception. Though I will admit, Bastila did play some part in it…”

She trails off and gives Bastila a crooked grin, the kind that makes Bastila’s heart wrench with how much she loves Revan. _She knows what she does to me, doesn’t she?_

“…but I digress. You were holding a speech, I believe? Something about your superiority…?”

Revan effortlessly twirls her saberstaff over her head, dropping into an opening stance, graceful and lethal, when Carth pipes up:

“Excuse me, _what_?! I mean, this isn’t – you can’t – “

Revan rolls her eyes, and Carth hits the wall with a loud thump, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap. He’s not dead, Bastila senses, and she knows that that in and of itself is a mercy from Revan. His head might as well be off by now, and she hopes the pilot is smart enough to keep his mouth shut when he wakes up. She’s sure Revan won’t be so lenient next time.

Malak is clearly struggling to keep his composure at this point. From what Bastila can tell, he’s only doing a mediocre job at it, and the complete absurdity of the situation at hand baffles her. Here she is, facing Darth Malak, the one evil she’d been sent out to stop, and after all of - what, five sentences? Six? - from Revan, the man is reduced to an almost comical side note. Darth Revan is back on the dejarik board, and as expected, all other pieces fall before her.

Even so, Bastila’s ever-cautious mind pipes up with the worry that Malak still poses a veritable threat, at least to herself, and even the mighty Revan isn’t invincible; but as Bastila struggles to remember a single instance known to the Jedi in which Malak actually defeated Revan in a fair match, she realizes this can only go one way. Malak stands absolutely no chance against Revan, Bastila is completely certain of that. She can feel it in her very bones, the Force thrumming with the inevitability of it.

Malak will die today, and what will become of the Galaxy then, only the Force knows…

Bastila’s attention is sharply pulled back to the present by a sudden flurry of motion around her. Malak and Revan both move in the same moment, charging at each other. Revan’s expression is sheer determination and focus as their blades violently clash, the buzz echoing loudly in the corridor. Malak’s face is twisted in hatred as their sabers lock, but Bastila senses a strong undercurrent of fear in the man.

_He knows_ , she thinks. _He’s prolonging his own demise._

Revan twists out of the deadlock and kicks at Malak, who has the presence of mind to step back in time to avoid a follow-up blow that would have taken his head clean off. He grunts, the sound distorted through his vocoder, and lunges at Revan’s chest, a clumsy blow she easily avoids.

They trade blows back and forth, like a twisted dance, Malak fast on his way to becoming outmanoeuvred by his opponent. Revan’s breath comes a little faster, her hair tousled beyond good or evil now, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead, and there’s an exhilarated grin on her face as she twirls around Malak like a Nexu around a Bantha.

Bastila swallows hard, and despite herself she feels a rather inappropriate flush creeping up her neck - Revan is toying with Malak, and looking absolutely _gorgeous_ while she does it.

With the air of one unchained after long restraint, she effortlessly deflects every single one of Malak’s swings and attacks, clearly seeing no need to continue playing the role of untrained, if gifted apprentice any longer.

Malak is panting, the sound clearly audible in his prosthetic. He throws his arm out, calling the Force to him, presumably to hurl Revan into the wall, but Revan just raises her hand in defence, blocking whatever Malak was attempting. The man doesn’t relent, though, leaning into the attack, strain visible on his face, but Revan doesn’t falter. The energy builds up around them, mounting in the empty space between their outstretched hands –

And then it bursts, sending a shockwave in all directions that nearly topples Bastila over. She can barely keep her footing, briefly closing her eyes against the onslaught. When she opens them again, Malak is unsteady but still on his feet, and Revan appears to be completely unmoved. Like a stone in the tides, she stands still, saber at the ready, still grinning lopsidedly at her unfortunate opponent.

Malak regains his balance remarkably well, flourishing his saber before he charges forward again, Revan coming up to meet him.

The dance continues, more intense than ever, Revan mildly amused and Malak scared for his life. He fights with all he’s got, pouring all his strength into his attacks, but Bastila can feel the growing dread in him as he wears himself out on Revan’s unyielding strength.

Orange clashes with red, staff with saber, over and over, the battle drawn out to a near standstill. Revan and Malak lock blades again, Revan’s lithe form easily countering Malak’s brute strength, but this time it’s Malak who ends it, twisting Revan’s blade to the side and stumbling away, nearly tripping over his feet.

He looks up at Revan, and there’s visceral _panic_ in his eyes this time. Clearly desperate, he raises his free hand, and Bastila can tell from the way the hair on the back of her neck stands up that he’s summoning force lightning.

White-hot streaks of electricity crack through the stale air, homing in on Revan’s form. Bastila can barely hold herself back from lunging forward to protect Revan, attack Malak, do anything at all, but Revan is faster.

Her grin now nothing short of terrifying, she raises her hand, the bolts gravitating to her highest point, connecting with her fingers–

– And nothing happens. At least, that’s what it looks like to Bastila a first; but after a moment, she realizes with a jolt that Revan is _absorbing_ the energy. The blue streaks dance around her arm as they sink into her skin, disappearing and leaving only an ethereal, sickly afterglow.

There’s an impossibly tense moment of silence – and then all hell breaks loose.

Revan casts her arm towards Malak, channelling both her own and his absorbed power into a lightning storm of apocalyptic measure. Malak never stood a chance.

His attempt at blocking the onslaught with his lightsaber quickly falls short, and he screams as the electricity tears into him.

The sickening smell of seared flesh fills the corridor as Malak writhes in agony, Revan’s power burning him alive as the shock-induced convulsions break his bones.

It’s _horrifying_ , seeing the true extent of Revan’s powers, the true extent of her _cruelty_. Malak is fatally wounded, there’s no chance he’ll survive this anymore, but Revan is relentless. Her grin now twisted into a frightening grimace of hate and anger, she seems to channel all of her pent-up anger into the attack, her hatred at this man who dared defy her, dared to wound her, make her _bleed_.

Malak’s screams are broken now, the electricity overloading his vocoder. His prosthetic jaw is emitting sparks, the smell of burning machinery mingling with the charred skin, when suddenly the whole array violently explodes. A large chunk of debris is sent flying, the recoil twisting Malak’s head sharply to the side, and it’s only then that Revan starts to lowers her arm, the electricity in the air fading.

Malak instantly drops to the floor with a thud, like a puppet with its strings cut. What is visible of his exposed skin is burnt, and a good part of his suit seems to be fused to the flesh underneath it; nearly half of his prosthetic jaw is torn off, and beneath it his open throat is visible, starting to drip with blood.

Revan steps closer, slow and measured, as the last crackles of lightning around her hands disperse. The only sounds are the clacking of her heels and Malak’s laboured wheezing. The man seems more dead than alive at this point and would undoubtedly not last much longer. Revan could simply wait this out, watch him choke to death on his own blood, unless the ruptured organs take him out first, but Bastila senses that Revan has waited long enough - perhaps for a lifetime.

Revan crouches down before Malak, who makes a feeble attempts at pushing himself up. It’s a truly pitiful sight, and as much as she might despise Malak, Bastila can’t help but feel a spark of compassion for the man; she hopes that Revan will at least grant him a quick death.

As Revan silently regards the dying man in front of her, Bastila feels a chill run down her spine. Revan’s expression is downright unsettling; she’s _smiling_ , looking for all intents and purposes casual, _sympathetic_ even, and Bastila has to resist the inexplicable urge to flinch.  
_This_ _is_ _Revan_ , she realizes, the reality of that statement truly hitting home for the first time. This is Revan the Butcher, looking down on her once best friend, dying in front of her by her hand, and _smiling_.

Bastila feels her knees weakening, no longer sure if she’s strong enough to witness what will surely follow, but she can’t bring herself to look away, either; it’s as if Revan herself forbids it. No, she will watch this – watch the woman she loves bare the abysmal depths of her soul to the world.

Malak tries heaving himself up once more, again to no avail, and starts coughing up more blood. The sight of clumps of blood being choked out of his open windpipe is disturbing. Bastila is already incredulous the man is still alive, but then he starts to speak, his voice distorted almost beyond recognition by his damaged vocoder:

“…I-impossible. I cannot be – “

A painful choking cough interrupts his sentence, accompanied by a fresh wave of blood evidence of more than one rib pierced through his lungs, but he continues:

“ – I cannot be beaten. I am the Dark Lord of the Sith!”

And Revan laughs, that beautiful, clear sound that Bastila adores turned into something hideous and terrifying, and yet inexplicably losing nothing of its allure.

“Oh, Alek. I knew from the very start that you were not meant for greatness. You bit off far more than you could chew when you chose to become my apprentice. You should have stayed with the Jedi and been content with feeding your delusions of grandeur with their childish games. This galaxy is a cruel place, Alek, and it has ground you to dust between its ever-turning gears…”

She trails off, looking into the distance with an almost pensive expression, as if those words had been meant for someone else entirely.

Malak coughs, weaker this time, but he still manages to grind out a response:

“…yes. I cannot deny it any longer…you are the one who deserves –“ choking, another gush of blood “ –who deserves to be the Dark Lord. I only ever followed in your wake…I tried to usurp your rule, to steal the title of Sith Master from you. But now I understand…”

Malak takes a rattling breath, but Bastila senses he isn’t done yet.

“…the destiny is yours, Revan. Not mine. You…you are Darth Revan, Lord – Lord of the Sith. And I…I am nothing.”

Revan smirks and clicks her tongue.

“And so the apprentice learns his final lesson. Ironic that it took you so long, isn’t it? But then again, it would have only prolonged the inevitable.”

Malak is barely breathing anymore, the coughing having given way to shallow gasps, the blood dribbling from his throat slowly gathering into a small pool around him. His voice is barely audible:

“And so it ends as I somehow always knew it must: in darkness.”

Revan’s smile hasn’t changed, but Bastila thinks she can sense a hint of genuine sympathy in it now. Perhaps Revan knows that she looks upon a mirror of her own eventual demise; for no truly great Lord of the Sith shall ever die peacefully. She shifts to tilt Malak’s head upward, forcing him to look her in the eyes, his gaze already going out of focus. She sounds almost caring when she speaks:

“Accept your fate, my friend, and die knowing that history will remember you forever as the failed usurper. And isn’t that what you always wanted, Alek? To be remembered?”

And with that, she ignites her lightsaber through his head.

-

It’s quick and painless, in the end. The awful stench of burning flesh in the corridor intensifies, and Bastila can feel her bile rise as Malak’s head drops back down with a dull thump and clang from his prosthetic.

_Isn’t this what you wanted?_ A voice in her head asks, _Malak dead? Isn’t this what the **Council** wanted? _

_It is_ , she thinks, but she has to swallow to fight the nausea nonetheless. The gory image of Malak’s eyes going blank as Revan’s orange blade sears through his brain is burned into her mind forever, and Bastila isn’t sure she can keep herself from vomiting as she feels her legs give out beneath her, sending her to her knees. Her saber falls from her grasp, clattering to the ground as she clasps a hand to her mouth. It’s too much, it _has been_ too much –

Revan stands up, drawing Bastila’s focus at once to her. She looks at Bastila, and suddenly, the young Jedi can feel a measure of her panic drain away, replaced by a tranquillity that she knows is unnatural. Revan must be using some kind of Force manipulation on her, but she can’t bring herself to fight it – not when the alternative is facing all that has happened on her own.

Revan takes a step towards her, but stays at a purposeful distance. She tilts her head to the side and regards Bastila for a long moment before she speaks.

“So…what now, Bastila?”

Bastila swallows again. Her throat is dry, and her mouth tastes of blood and the smell of charred corpse. She feels dizzy and weak, even though this isn’t the first time she’s seen someone die gruesomely, this hits different. This time, it hadn’t been done by the enemy, someone whose ways she could condemn and rest assured she had the moral high ground, this wasn’t some nameless battlefield casualty she could shrug off. This hadn’t been the Sith, the people she’d been taught from earliest childhood were evil – or had it been?

“…who are you? _What_ are you?”

The question spills from Bastila’s lips almost without conscious thought. She simply doesn’t know who or what she’s looking at in this moment. Revan, Halina, the Lord of the Sith…? If Marka Ragnos’ spirit appeared now to tell them that Revan was, in fact, the Sith’ari, Bastila doesn’t think she’d bat an eye at it anymore.

Revan laughs.

“An excellent question! What am I? I’m afraid I don’t know that myself.

“I was born Halina Jerre, daughter of Jetasa and Brenor Jerre, on a farm on Lothal. I was trained as a Jedi, feared as the Revanchist, anointed a Sith, disguised as a soldier and revealed as the Dark Lord…you could say my life has been storied, if nothing else. But who am I, in the end?”

She paces back and forth as she speaks, stopping to absent-mindedly regard Malak’s body.

“I am all of these things, and I am none of them. In the end, Revan is a canvas for the people to project their fears and hopes onto. They wished for the Mandalorians to be defeated, and Revan came to their aid. Revan the Butcher did what Halina the Jedi could not; she slaughtered, she fought, she _won_. She crushed the Mandalorians beneath her heel. But what did she gain? For all the galaxy cared, she was a blank slate. A mask is a strong symbol, stronger than a face can ever be, because secretly, we all see ourselves underneath it….”

She turns to look past Bastila.

“It was then, when the Mandalorians lay defeated, at what should have been the height of my triumph, that I realized that I was not content with being the beacon of hope, the hero of the oppressed. It wasn’t what I wanted. I craved meaning, significance, some deeper truth I felt lurking beneath the surface. I delved into ancient Sith teachings, I learned of their forbidden lore. Alek joined me, and I sought out the Star Forge…and I think you know the rest.”

Revan ends her pacing with a final, decisive step towards Bastila, her robe swaying with an appropriate air of drama. She levels her gaze at the young Jedi, expectant but unhurried, letting the gravity of the moment unfold between them.

Bastila looks up at her, gaze unfocused, still nauseous, arms clasped around herself as if to keep her from falling apart – and the only thing she can think is:

_There can’t be anyone in this galaxy who pulls off dramatic monologues quite like Revan does._

A statement truly befitting the darkly comedic absurdity of their situation, and Bastila feels a dry, humourless laugh force its way out of her throat.

_How did it come to this?_

How did Bastila Shan, Jedi prodigy, hailed as the captor of Revan, end up pale and shaking, kneeling at her supposed captive’s feet next to the corpse of a man she once thought near invincible?

She opens her mouth, but no words will form; it’s like her mind has ceased to cooperate with her heart, perhaps in an effort to minimize damage. But the damage’s been done, and _oh_ , **_how_** it has been done…

Revan smiles, and Bastila can almost imagine it’s gentle; then again, she always seems so much softer around the edges when dealing with Bastila. Maybe she’s just accepted the white noise of thinly veiled violence behind that smile, become blind to it from overexposure, like a Kaminoan eventually becomes deaf to the rain.

“I have a good guess on what you’re thinking, Bastila. You’re radiating uncertainty like the twin suns of Tatooine – you’re asking yourself how you ended up here, aren’t you?”

Bastila would find Revan’s intrusion on her thoughts unsettling if she weren’t so used to it by now. She knows there’s no point denying it. She nods weakly, defeated.

Revan clicks her tongue in mock disapproval.

“Looks like the old saying holds some truth, after all – be careful what you wish for, eh?”

Her smile crooks into a condescending smirk, and Bastila feels the cold in her bones seep into her heart. And now she does deny, after all:

“What…are you talking about?”

A disbelieving laugh, and a hand waved dismissively.

“Oh come on, Bastila, spare us both the scene, will you? Your little fantasy of kneeling at my feet – in every possible connotation that pose has, I might add – was about as hard to miss as Zaalbar’s snoring. Although…”

She circles closer, graceful and threatening, until she takes up Bastila’s field of vision entirely. The young Jedi refuses to raise her head, stubbornly staring at the durasteel weld lines below her. But Revan won’t have that – of course she wouldn’t. Bastila shivers when she feels gloved fingers below her chin, ghosting over her throat before tilting her head back, forcing her to look at Revan.

“…that fantasy wasn’t quite so little now, was it? Quite the contrary. I’m well aware of my… _allure_ , shall we say, and I’ve had more than a few people fall for me in my time. It can make for a useful tool, even. But I have to say, I think you take the record. I should have kept tabs in a chart, honestly – you let go of my metaphorical leash the Jedi gave you in record time, and then some.”

She laughs, sounding genuinely amused, and Bastila’s insides twist violently with the sound of it _. How dare she…?_ Is this all it is to her? A _game_? An entertaining pastime, cataloguing just how quickly a Jedi could fall?

Bastila’s mouth is pressed in a tight line, teeth worrying the inside of her lip. Had she truly been this blind? Allowed herself to dare think of genuine emotion, of love, where Revan was concerned, let herself be ensnared like prey in a spider’s web that doesn’t notice it’s being poisoned until it’s too late? Abandoned her Jedi ways, nearly _begged_ for her approval just now, for _this_?

But Revan isn’t done twisting the knife yet:

“You weren’t even _trying_ to be subtle about it, either. Between your dream weaver looks and those delightful shudders every time I “ _accidentally_ ” touched you, it was more a matter of me determinedly playing blind than of you actually bothering to keep it a secret, really. And the things you let me get away with…”

Revan chuckles, apparently having trouble believing it even in hindsight. 

“Ignoring a force suggestion or two that got us places, I can look past. Manipulating the Manaan High Court, cheating impoverished street peddlers out of their last credits or ending a harmless bar fight with bloodshed was a little harder to ignore already. But you’ve seen me gorge out my enemies’ guts with the Force, snap their every bone with my bare hands, and send those that still persistently cling to their worthless lives out of their mind with pain and terror, letting them spend their last pitiful moments in writhing agony, _and you didn’t bat an eye._

“I’ve sent men to their deaths, Bastila, their completely avoidably but no less gruesome _deaths_ , with _my voice alone_ , and you said _nothing_. You just pretended it away, if you weren’t busy getting perversely aroused over it, that is.”

Bastila twists her head out of Revan’s grasp now, the weight of her cruel gaze physically unbearable. Her face burns bright red with shame, and she distantly feels her own fingers leaving bruises where they’re digging into her arms. She wishes Carth would wake up, but the man’s out cold, probably comatose, the blast doors are shut, the Hawk’s crew anxiously huddled on the ship, awaiting them – no one can save her. She’s alone. And Revan still persists, leaning down now to speak closer to Bastila’s ear, voice silky and deeply disturbing.

“And oh my, there were more than a few instances of that happening, I recall. Your mind is so _open_ , Bastila, it’s a testament to either my ability to read you or the Jedi’s poor judgement for appointing you, of all people, as my handler. Celibacy didn’t become you, I take it – the _things_ you were imagining…”

Bastila screws her eyes shut, as if that will somehow stop Revan from continuing. She feels the familiar sting of tears, shame and anger threatening to overwhelm her as she’s forced to listen to Revan’s unrelentingly cruel recital:

“I remember when we had to fight off a whole hangar of Sith troops on Manaan. I had finished off the last of them, and I was panting with the exertion of it, a sheen of sweat on my skin, my hair ruffled and eyes gleaming – the image is clear in your mind, even now – and when I absent-mindedly wiped their blood off my face with the back of my hand, you had the visceral need to let me slam you into the nearest wall and claim you right then and there, rough and hard and _dirty_.”

Revan’s wicked grin is audible.

“When I was testifying before Manaan’s court, the sound of my voice spilling sweet nothings and beautiful lies sent shudders down your spine. You imagined my lips on your ear then, singing your praises while my hands roamed your body…”

“On Kashyyyk, I sent Commander Dern’s men into their own superior’s fire, knowingly and for no higher purpose other than my own amusement, and apart from telling me that – how did you put it again? That it was beneath me? you did exactly nothing to stop me. That night, you lay awake in your bunk, pleasuring yourself to the fantasy of being utterly controlled by me, my voice alone forcing you to completion.”

Revan laughs darkly, oh so alluring even with the worst of intentions.

“And how could I forget what has to be your favourite fantasy, the most twisted and immoral of them all, the one that caused you guilt beyond measure even as you returned to it time and time again?”

Revan bows low enough that she can put her lips directly to Bastila’s ear, and she can’t suppress the violent shudder the sensation causes as Revan continues:

“The Star Forge under my command, the Order shattered, the galaxy ablaze…and you, kneeling at my feet, calling me _master_.”

Her voice drips with sweet honey and condescending disgust, the cruel curl of her mouth like silk on Bastila’s skin.

And with this, her darkest, most heretic desire being exposed to the world (for what else was Revan, truly?) –

Bastila _snaps_.

-

The hot shame and cold fury in her heart collide, blotting out all else as she springs to her feet, blindly shoving Revan away from her, sending her stumbling but not falling, _never falling_ –

“ ** _Enough_**!!”

Bastila calls her lightsaber to her hand, igniting it without thinking as she acts on instinct and terrible fury.

“I have been foolish to think a monster such as you would ever be capable of love. You _disgust_ me, Halina – no, **_Revan_**. You truly are Revan the Butcher, and I see now that no shred of light shall ever reach your heart. I will see you brought down, Revan, and if I die trying, then so be it! Your reign of terror cannot be allowed to continue!”

The words are empty phrases, but Bastila barely pays heed to what she’s saying, anyways. The overwhelming urge to lash out at Revan, to do anything but be complacent in this, is enough to drive her.

And out of all the things she’d expected Revan to do – charge at her, send her flying, outright kill her - the woman _grins_.

She grins, broadly and with a kind of satisfaction to it Bastila hasn’t seen often, and the glint in her eye is evidence of a fire freshly fuelled – the expression speaks of utter triumph.

Making no move to reach for her own lightsaber, Revan throws her arms out exaltedly.

“ _This_ is what I want to see! Finally, you begin to understand.”

Bastila lowers her blades, trying and failing to mask her confusion. Revan continues:

“You are no mindless puppet, Bastila! Only the Jedi would have you believe that. You have unbridled emotion in you, a depth of passion unrivalled – you need but act on it! Your days of crawling at the Jedis’ feet, of letting them treat you like a child, like nothing more than a _tool_ to be used for their twisted games – they are done!”

She takes a step towards Bastila, completely unfazed by her saber.

“You are the single brightest point in the Force I have ever witnessed, Bastila. You don’t need my coaxing to unleash your spirit, no one’s code to live by. Cast away the last remnants of the chains of mindless dogma the Jedi sought to bind you with! They deserve not your loyalty. From now on, you shall bow before no one – save your _true_ master.”

And with a frightening serenity in stark contrast to her fervent excitement, she says:

“ _Become my apprentice_. Let me guide you on this path, and all shall fall before us.”

And with that, she extends a hand towards Bastila and simply waits.

\--

For a moment, Bastila’s mind is utterly blank. Revan’s words ring in her ears, heard but barely understood. As their meaning catches up to her, the young Jedi slowly deactivates her lightsaber and puts it back to her belt. She hears herself say something, unaware she’s speaking for a few seconds:

“How can I believe you? After all your lies, all you’ve just said and done, how do you expect me to _believe_ you?”

Revan’s expression softens into an almost-smile.

“Search your feelings, Bastila. You know I speak the truth. You know better than anyone.”

“My trust in my feelings has been somewhat…diminished as of late,” Bastila answers blankly.

In response, Revan’s half-smile turns into a familiar smirk.

“Then let actions show what words cannot.”

And with that, she closes the distance between them in a single graceful motion and kisses Bastila.

A heartbeat passes.

And then Bastila actually _moans_ , throaty and desperate, and crushes Revan closer with unbridled need.

They stumble back – _or is Revan pushing her? Bastila can’t tell_ – and Bastila feels her back hit the wall as she tangles her fingers in Revan’s messy, sweat-dampened hair. The kiss is frantic and messy but oh so _good_ , no finesse and all desire, and they’re only parting for the absolutely critical amount of oxygen before diving right back in.

Revan nips at Bastila’s lip, eliciting a gasp, and presses her advantage with her tongue darting into Bastila’s mouth. Bastila makes a high-pitched sound somewhere in her chest and feels her knees nearly buckle underneath her.

Revan tastes like lightning, like fire and blood, like pure power – and it’s _intoxicating_ , quickly eroding Bastila’s ability for conscious thought. Revan’s lithe, sinewy body is pressed to hers in all the wrong and right places, hands roaming restlessly over Bastila’s back, the base of her skull, her neck -

Revan’s gloved fingers close lightly around Bastila’s throat, and the surge of pure desire it sends through her is almost shameful in its intensity. She craves this woman so dearly it _hurts_ , and the months – years, even – of pent up yearning come uncontrollably crashing down on her, unheeding of circumstance.

Revan hums, clearly pleased with the reaction she’s causing, and trails kisses down Bastila’s jaw as she idly presses her thumb into the hollow of her throat. Bastila gasps quietly, her hands in Revan’s hair tightening into fists.

In reaction, Revan sharply bites at Bastila’s neck and –

\--and presses her thigh between Bastila’s, and every last shred of self-restraint that may have been left leaves Bastila as she bites her lip to stifle a loud groan. The pressure is _just right_ , and she can’t help her hips twitching back in response, seeking friction.

Revan obliges her and moves against her, still busy leaving blatantly visible bite marks on Bastila’s throat. Bastila makes a sound that’s disturbingly close to a whimper as she shamelessly grinds against Revan, all pretence of decency long since abandoned to adrenaline-fueled need.

Revan’s breath comes harder, too, and the singular, urgent focus and clear determination underlying her movement betray her stubborn silence, baring her emotions in a way that words truly couldn’t ever measure up to.

Bastila buries her face in Revan’s shoulder to muffle any further sounds, panting against the fabric of her tunic as her quickly mounting pleasure threatens to overcome her.

And Revan must sense it, as she always does, because she licks a hot, wet stripe up to Bastila’s ear and says, in her most lethally seductive tone:

“Come for me, Bastila.”

And Bastila does, muffling a low shout of what might have been Revan’s name against her neck.

-

The orgasm is impossibly intense, far more than it should be after such rudimentary intimacy, really, and she’s slow to come back from the high, panting and boneless in Revan’s arms.

One by one, her senses return to her, and with them a somewhat uncomfortable realization. Bastila lets go of Revan’s hair to run a hand through her own, before looking into her eyes and saying:

“Did you seriously just coerce me into sexual intercourse next to a charred corpse and an unconscious man in the middle of what was supposed to be an escape from a ship swarming with Sith troopers out for our heads?”

The question wasn’t supposed to be funny in the slightest, and the fact that it somehow comes out sounding like a surreal and very dark joke sums up the disturbing nature of their situation uncomfortably well; though Bastila is hard-pressed to really care for the moment being.

Revan pulls back a little, but keeps her hands resting lightly on Bastila’s sides. She cocks her head and cracks a lopsided grin – coupled with her hopelessly tousled hair, the dilated pupils and her ever so slightly accelerated breath, she looks positively _feral_ in the dim red light, a beast let loose and exhilarated at its newfound freedom.

“The wasn’t an awful lot of coercive effort required on my part, I believe,” she says with a breathless laugh, still so intensely, impossibly close to Bastila, and it’s harder than it should be to break through the haze of battle-born adrenaline and orgasmic high with Revan holding her like this, without a care in the galaxy.

“Still, I suppose you’re right. As entertaining as I find all this, I’m afraid there are more pressing matters that require our attention just now…”

How exactly anyone could genuinely describe any part of the current situation with a word such as “entertaining” is beyond Bastila; there’s a disfigured dead body to be taken care of, a comatose man who was quite possibly a death row candidate in their new situation, and a flagship full of soldiers that would no doubt take some aggressive convincing to accept their new (old?) commander. But then again - this _is_ Revan she’s dealing with. She’s used to worse.

Revan steps back fully now, and Bastila immediately misses her presence. Circling the room, she puts a hand to her chin in thought – _how is she always this calm?_

“There’s the Hawk’s crew, for starters – to be honest, I’d be lying if I said this was the outcome I’d had in mind for this encounter. Apparently I severely underestimated Malak’s incompetence.”

She tsks, regarding the former Sith Lord’s body.

“A lapse in my judgement. It shan’t happen again.”

Bastila is still where Revan left her, leaning against the hull for support as she watches Revan, dimly aware she’d best let her give the orders here. Revan raises her wrist, her comm unit beeping to life as she signals the Hawk:

“Halina here. Listen, I need you to trust me – you _have_ to stay in the hangar, no matter what happens next! I have to – yes, Canderous, you heard me! – stay where you are until further notice, do you understand?”

It never fails to amaze Bastila just how _seamless_ Revan’s many roles are. The impression of breathless urgency she gives is indistinguishable from the real thing, and for all the crew knows, she’s running down the halls in frantic pursuit, imploring them to stay against better judgement. Bastila knows they trust Revan – no, _Halina_ , to them it’s only ever been Halina - but it barely even registers on her moral compass anymore how Revan is abusing their fidelity.

As a matter of fact, her moral compass might have vanished altogether.

_No_ , she thinks, _not vanished_ – realigned; altered, over the course of many months, in increments so small they were virtually unnoticeable, until the magnetic flux of her life converged at a new centre:

**_Revan_**.

As she watches Revan, Bastila wonders whether it had truly been an alteration, or if her life, her being, her very essence in the Force, had not simply returned to their true focal point on instinct. For the first time in Force knows how long, Bastila can feel the Force around her thrum with anticipation, with a sense of purpose she’d thought lost- like a star ship finally honing in on a hyperspace beacon, emerging out of the infinite void of open space and into a new galaxy ripe with limitless possibility.

And at the nexus of it all, just like black holes are the birthplace of galaxies, lies the searing abyss that is Revan; all-encompassing, all-consuming, all-ending, swallowing every shred of light in its wake like a living beast, insatiable and terrible in its hunger. Like an enormous maw, Bastila can feel Revan’s darkness encroach upon her, stretching its tendrils and beckoning but not yet pulling her down, as if unwilling to deny her the final choice.

Revan lowers her comlink, apparently content with Canderous’ answer for the moment, and turns toward the blast door, taking a few steps and apparently expecting Bastila to follow. When she doesn’t, Revan halts and looks back over her shoulder, eyes alight with vigour and that familiar lopsided grin on her face, always dancing on the thin line between exhilarated and unhinged. 

“You coming, then?”

Bastila closes her eyes, takes one last deep breath – and jumps.

“ _Yes, Master_.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...whew. you made it!! love you long time<3 this was waay longer than i intended, but damn if I didnt enjoy writing it! i hope you werent sick of my metaphoric language after like three sentences, i really crammed a fuckton of that in thereXD if i ever do write that novel version of the game in this au, this sint how this game scene would play out. in the acutal story context, revan shouldnt really be strong enough to casually wipe the floor with malak since it would make most of the game kinda pointless, but i still really wanted to see how that scenario might play out so;;; also, bastila being almost as bad as and probably more depraved than revan? yes pleASE we sTAN  
> and yES literally like 60 other fics on this site have the exact same title but it just fit so well fight me
> 
> As always, please point out any mistakes, and comments make me happy~ ;D


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